They watched and waited on the rooftop, scanning the various approaches to the stronghold. Mallet checked in with the guys on the ground. Gregory was in constant contact with the private airfield, feeding information back to the team on the roof. Casey and Lanky were standing by with the mortar. Mallet got on the phone to Six, letting them know they had been in a skirmish with the Machete Boys and expected another attack soon.

Mavinda’s voice carried over the radio net. ‘Message from one of the garrisons outside the capital,’ he said. ‘They’ve got reports of a large rebel force leaving Marafeni airport.’

Bowman automatically tensed. ‘KUF?’

‘Got to be,’ said Webb. ‘They’re the ones who captured the airport.’

‘When was this, Major?’ Mallet asked.

There was a pause before Mavinda replied. ‘An hour ago.’

‘How far is Marafeni airport from here?’

‘Three hours, give or take.’

‘Then the KUF could be on their way here now,’ Bowman said, knotting his brow. ‘They could be here in a couple of hours.’

‘Or they might be moving on to another target. The mines, the port. One of the garrisons. We don’t know where they’re going.’

Before Bowman could respond, Webb called out to the team.

‘Enemy vehicles, inbound,’ he said as he scanned the horizon. ‘Coming from the north-west.’

Bowman narrowed his eyes in the direction Webb was looking. In the distance, a mile or so away, he could make out the tiny settlement at Rogandu, the T-junction leading south towards the main metalled road. The faintest puff of dust clouds swirled high above the treeline.

‘How many, Patrick?’ Mallet said.

‘I see three of them. One technical. Two pickups. Guys on the back. Looks like more Machete Boys.’

‘The bastards want another taste,’ Loader said.

Mallet talked into his throat mic. ‘Guys, looks like we’ve got more rebels coming our way. Hold your fire until I say otherwise.’

For the next several minutes more rebels arrived in dribs and drabs. Two pickup trucks, then another three civilian cars. They came bombing in from the village to the north-west, spewing up clouds of grey-brown dust as they RV’d with the surviving gang of rebels sheltering behind the woodland to the north.

Webb kept a close eye on the enemy, reporting their movements and numbers. Bowman, Mallet and Loader surveyed the other approaches to the stronghold. Looking to see where the rebels would hit them next.

Twelve minutes passed.

Bowman figured the rebels were psyching themselves up for the next attack. Pouring booze down their throats, smoking the local ganja, egging each other on. Their mates had been pasted. They had been personally humiliated on the field of battle. Pride was at stake. They would be itching to get their revenge. They would be feeling bullish about their chances of victory, now that their ranks had been bolstered.

Won’t be long now, he thought.

Four more minutes crawled past.